The Point of No Return
by charlie009d
Summary: It wasn't just a test for the hardcore Marine. It was also a test for the team. How could they handle life without their fearless leader? How could their leader stand months of torture, both physical and mental? Most importantly, when he returned, would there be anything to return to?
1. Chapter 1

_Hey, It's Charlie. I understand that most of you want to rip my face off, and I can't say I blame you. Well, as I promised I have begun to rewrite The Point of No Return. This would have come later if not for captainmorgan101 so you have him/her to thank. She/he has been so helpful the last couple months… well, I think it has almost been a year at this point. She/he has encouraged me to continue. This is simply the first chapter, I have no clue when the second will be posted. Into the Darkness is my baby, and my main priority. It will always come first. I just decided to type this up to let you all know there is still some hope of me finishing it. When Calleigh has my note book with Into the Darkness in it I will work on this story. Well, enjoy._

_Warnings: McAbby, and Tiva romance. Sexual situations, swearing, and…. *insert evil laughter here*… torture!_

_Disclaimer: If I owned NCIS Ziva wouldn't have put Tony in the friendzone._

Tony watched quietly as the moving truck pulled away from the curb. Already the sounds of music blasting through the window pane reached his ears, and the corners of his mouth twitched upward, but he could not bring himself to fully smile. Obviously Abby was driving, and had full control over the radio. McGee would have to deal with bleeding eardrums the whole way home. The two had spent the whole day helping Tony and Ziva move into their new house, they had even rented the moving truck for them, which was hardly necessary because he and Ziva had few personal items, and the house they were moving into was already fully furnished. The corners of his mouth dropped and he lost the twinkle of amusement in his emerald green eyes. No, don't think about it. Unconsciously he tightened his grip on the six pack of beer hanging by his side. Don't think that's all he had to do. If he didn't think it wouldn't hurt. It was as simple as that, or so he tried to convince himself sometimes.

Blinking his eyes as if he had just snapped out of a trance, Tony let one corner of his mouth quark upward again, even if he didn't have anything to be happy about. He turned on his heel and walked briskly toward his new home dragging the case of beer beside him. Over the shrubs one of his new neighbors watched and gave a silent wave, and he nodded with the awkward half smile-half grimace that had settled on his handsome face. Tony knew that the old man peeking over the bushes had his eyes on the beer, but he decided to ignore that fact. He had just moved into a lovely new home, he was entitled to celebration. Wasn't he? Sure he was. The old man was simply a worried grandparent, Tony decided. He probably just fretted that Tony would be throwing wild parties all night every night. His mouth creased into a thin line, and he tried to recall a time when that sounded fun to him.

Reaching the front door he quietly pushed it open, and he felt his heart skip a beat when it opened without him having to use his key. It was unlocked, as always. Mentally he slapped himself. Of course it was unlocked, he and Ziva were both home. Silently he shut the door behind him, hoping not to attract her attention wherever she may have been in the house at that point and time. Tony almost turned around and locked the door, but he didn't. It just didn't seem right. The door had been locked for so many months, and it was finally open again. That's the way things should have been the whole time. Moving away from the door he slid into the dining room, which held his piano instead of a dining set. The previous owner had never been one for eating in the assigned room, so Tony felt it was only right to uphold that tradition.

The light in the kitchen was dim when he walked in. The over head lights were not on, but the dying rays on the sun slipped past the bluish-green curtains and lit little the small comfortable kitchen to the best of their ability. With one hand on the fridge and the other on his pack of beer, he thought he was finally home free, but it seemed fate had a wicked sense of humor, for when he popped the fridge open the ceiling light flicked on simultaneously. Swearing quietly under his breath, Tony turned quickly and plastered the closest thing he could manage to a smile on his face, while trying to hide the Budweiser behind his back. Ziva stood there with her arms crossed over her chest and a suspicious glint in her eyes. She wore a brown camisole with a sleeveless vest over it, and a pair of beat up shorts. Simple clothes, yet Tony could not even begin to imagine how she made them look so wonderful and seductive. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail, but still a few strands of stray hair fell into her face. Tony felt himself fighting off the overwhelming desire to tuck the tuffs or hair behind her ear, and he would have, if he wasn't knee deep in chicken shit.

"What is that?" Ziva asked in a low voice, gesturing toward whatever Tony had concealed behind his back.

"What is what?" He replied innocently.

"Behind your back. What is that you have?"

Tony glanced behind him briefly and turned to face Ziva again. "That's the refrigerator, come on I _know_ they have those in Israel."

She merely scowled. "You know that is not what I am talking about, Tony."

"It's nothing to worry about, Zee." He said, smoothly. "Just give me a minute and I will be out to help you dig out the family pictures."

Pinching the bridge of her nose Ziva nodded and turned to leave. Tony closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief, well, that was easier than he thought it would be. Then it hit him, easy, Ziva was never easy. His eyes snapped open to see a smaller more lithe body flying in his direction, as though it had been flung. He attempted to duck out of the way, but there was no time. Ziva crashed into him and the both toppled to the floor like a ton of bricks. The carton of Budweiser slipped from his grasp, also falling to the floor. Beer cans rolled out onto the linoleum and Tony laughed uneasily as he picked himself up and offered a helping hand to Ziva, who refused. Instead she remained on her knees and picked up one of the shaken cans. Steadily climbing to her feet she shoved it accusingly in Tony's face, and he knew, in that moment he was as good as dead.

"What the hell is this?" She demanded. "Isn't it too early to be drinking?"

Tony jokingly checked his watch, trying to buy some time to let her blow off some steam. "It's past five o'clock."

"That is a thing in America, is it not?" She snarled, and Tony was not sure if he should answer. Lucky for him she continued before he had a chance to make a fool of himself. "It is five o'clock somewhere? Eh? Tony, this is an unhealthy habit."

"It's only a six pack."

"Yes, it is. A six pack a day." Ziva retorted.

"Zee-,"

"Do not even attempt to make excuses. This is disgusting, I will not tolerate it. If it does not stop I will walk right out that door," She gestured toward the general direction the front door was in. "I do not care if we just moved in together. I will leave. Do not doubt me."

Tony remained silent, thinking over her words.

Ziva's face softened and she caressed his cheek, ignoring the brown stubble that had grown there. "Tony, I love you, and I cannot bear to see you destroy yourself in such a way. I cannot stand by silently as you drink yourself to death. Now, tell me," She held up the can of beer clutched in her hand. "What is the occasion?"

He averted his eyes, no longer able to look a Ziva. "One year," He mumbled with a voice full of emotion. "One year today."

"Oh, Tony…" she breathed. "I did not realize…"

"It's okay," He attempted to smile, but it did not work out as he had hoped. So he simply leaned in and planted his lips on her forehead, then whispered: "I didn't want to remember it either."

Tony wound his arms around Ziva's thin body and leaned on her slightly for support. Like wise she snuggled her face close to his chest and listed to the steady rhythm of his heart. They stood their like that for awhile, neither wanting to break the normal moment in their messed up lives. It felt like they were wrapped in each other's embrace for forever, and they may have been. The world could have collapsed around them and they would not have cared. They had each other, and they liked to believe it was enough to get them through hard times, but sometimes that was not the case. Sometimes, even when they had each other it was not enough. Like in that moment, they had each other, but that was not enough to fill the big gapping hole in both of their hearts. But they pretended it was.

Ziva was the first to pull away, and she instantly regretted it. Tony had become a master at hiding his emotions, but his eyes were open doors, and she could clearly see that he was not ready to let go, in any sense of the meaning. Bending down wordlessly she scooped up another can of beer and tossed it to Tony, who was so surprised he nearly didn't catch it. Staring at it as though it were a foreign object, he looked up a Ziva and raised a questioning eyebrow. She nodded slightly in encouragement, and he just frowned at her, unable to decode what she was implying. With an over exaggerated sigh she popped the tab on her beer, and quickly took a sip. Finally getting her point Tony followed suit and popped his own tab. His mouth was salivating as the slightly warm beer bubbled over the aluminum top, and he was having trouble not gulping the whole thing down in one breath.

"I suppose one more day will not hurt you," Ziva said, raising her can. "but this one is mine."

"You don't like beer," Tony pointed out.

"True," She said, taking another sip. "I like wine,"

"French,"

"Finely aged,"

Tony took a sip of his own beer. "You didn't let me finish."

Ziva grinned up at him, and stood on her toes to kiss the tip of his nose. "I think I will get the bed and bath ready, and we can finish unpacking tomorrow."

"Bed _and_ bath?" Tony mused. "Is it my lucky night?"

She swatted at him. "You know what I mean. You do not want to go to bed dirty do you?"

"'Course not," He said teasingly. "I like being dirty _in_ bed."

"What am I going to do with you?" Ziva groaned.

"I'm not sure, but I know what I'm going to do with _you_."

She raised her hands in defeat. "Fine, I give up. I am leaving now, please come to bed at a reasonable hour. I have to go to work in the morning and I will not be in the best of moods if you wake me at three in the morning, again."

"If I come to bed early, do I get a prize?"

Ziva groaned and walked off, her beer still in hand. Once Tony could no longer hear her footstep he chugged the rest of his beer, and reached for another. Folding up his shirt into a pouch similar to a kangaroo's, Tony stacked the remaining beer cans in it, and started for the living room. He wasn't dressed in his best attire, he wore a plain white t-shirt and brown pants, but it could be worse. All of his satin suits sat in a box somewhere, and he would probably never unpack them, for he had no where in particular to wear them to. His face could have also used a good shave, but Ziva said she liked his stubble, and he honestly didn't feel like shaving, so he found no reason to shave anytime soon. Some would say he let himself go, but Tony didn't think that. He was in perfectly good shape. He just didn't give a damn on what he look like anymore. Was there anything wrong with that? He thought not.

The beers clinked together as they bounced around his cupped shirt, and he quietly set them down on the coffee table, and eased himself onto the worn couch. The living room was practically the same as the previous owner had left it. The only exception was that the dinky television from before had been replaced with Tony's forty-two inch plasma screen that had all the necessary setting for watching any type of movie. Grabbing the remote he turned the TV on and played The Guilt Trip. God, he loved Barbara. No matter how old she was, she still had it. As he watched he downed a few more beers, and just as the end credits rolled he finished his last one. He hadn't meant to drink them all, it had just happened. Oh, well, there was nothing he could do about it at that point.

Completely forgetting to turn the television off, Tony teetered towards the stair, and tried to walk in a straight line. In fact, he made a game of trying to walk in between the lines on the floor boards, which wouldn't have even worked if he had been sober, his feet were entirely too big to not step on any cracks. But maybe… Maybe Ziva's feet were small enough. That is when Tony got the bright idea to go see if she wanted to play. He didn't even notice that just outside of the window the sun had already set. Almost hysterical giggles burst from his mouth at the concept of Ziva playing his game. She'd love it! Watching the world turn topsy-turvy like some amusement park ride, Tony giggled some more. Was it his game that did that? Or did he have one too many beers? It didn't matter he was far too focused on telling Ziva all about his game to even think about that. Stay on track, he reminded himself, stay on track.

Clutching onto the railing as if his life depended on it, Tony slowly made his way up the stairs. He was actually quite curious to see the upstairs. He had only seen it one or two times, but that was only when he was visiting the house when the previous owner lived there, and that was to use the bathroom. Normally he stuck to the basement. He giggle at that, but he wasn't sure why. It wasn't funny. It was actually kind of sad. Anger swelled within Tony, he wasn't supposed to know that was sad. He must not have drunk enough booze. Damn Ziva for taking the sixth beer. That might have been the difference between being sad, and being so drunk that he pissed his pants. He actually preferred the latter of the two. Unfortunately there was no more alcohol in the house… At least, not that he knew of. Maybe he would search later.

By the time he reached the top of the steps, Tony had forgotten what he had even come up there for. Didn't matter, one thing was for sure. He had to piss really damn bad. Moving clumsily forward, he trudged toward the bathroom door directly in front of him, which was closed. He didn't have a second thought as he rattled the door knob, and let himself in. The shear humidity hit him in the face like a punch. Wispy tendrils of water vapor twisted into the air like the smoke from a cigarette. The mirror was misted over, and water was beating off the floor of the shower. However, he did not notice any of that. He made his way straight to the toilet. There was a green fluffy towel sitting on the closed lid, which was kind of annoying, but he brushed it off of the seat and onto the floor. There, problem solved. Lifting the seat, and unzipping his pant, Tony went about his business.

"_Oh, my darlin'_," He sang. "_Oh, my darlin', oh, my darlin' Clementine_…"

"Tony?" A voice asked.

He immediately looked up. "God?"

"No, Tony. It is me."

Looking to his side, Tony found Ziva peering at him past the shower curtain. She was all wet. He gave her a lopsided grin. "Ziva, you sound just like God."

"That's nice to know," She said slowly. "I am almost finished, why don't you go to bed. I just put sheets on it."

"Don't I get to come in?"

"Not tonight," She said rolling her eyes. "Now shoo, go to bed."

"I'm not finished," He said gesturing downward, and then he paused. "oh, maybe I am."

Zipping his pants back up, he stumbled out of the bathroom and hooked right into the bedroom. It was a nice size, with a wooden floor just like the rest of the house. It was pretty empty, but that was mostly because he and Ziva were not finished unpacking. The bed stood to the right. It was fairly large, maybe a queen, he estimated. It had nothing more than neutral green sheets on it, true to Ziva's word. That was okay though. It was July, the fourth to be exact. The hottest month of summer in his opinion, they didn't need anything more than sheets. Directly across from it stood a tall oak dresser that was in desperate need of a dusting. Lumbering toward it, he pulled open the top drawer and found himself face to face with a USMC t-shirt. Swallowing thickly, he closed the drawer. Apparently Ziva hadn't bothered to empty the drawers yet.

Tony pulled his shirt over his head, and let his pants drop to his ankles. Sleeping in his underwear would probably be his best option. Kicking the clothes into a corner, Tony silently hoped that Ziva wouldn't get mad at him for not picking them up. He loved her, but sometimes she could be pretty scary. Almost tripping over his own feet, Tony finally made his way to bed, and slipped between the sheets. Once his head hit the pillow he was out, though it was a short lived rest. The second Ziva entered the room his eyes snapped open, and he found himself face to her and her fuzzy pink bathrobe that he had gotten her for her birthday. Silently she slipped it off, and pulled her wet hair back from her face. Tony was left to look at her bare body, and he could not help shivering with pleasure.

Ziva turned toward a cardboard box, and bent over to retrieve her night clothes. This action left her rounded breasts hanging limply in the air, and Tony could no longer contain himself. Pulling the sheets off of himself, he crawled out of bed and quietly moved to Ziva. She had to know he was there, she just had to. Otherwise she would have probably attacked him. Moving behind her, Tony ran his hands down her sides, and she moaned slightly before standing up straight, and leaned her head into his shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and he looked down on her beautiful face. Tilting his head down his lips met hers, and he gently nibbled on her bottom lip, while one of her hands came up to stroke his stubbly cheek. Tony bit down a little harder, and his hands moved up to her chest, where he gave her breasts a tight squeeze and pushed them back flat against her body.

In an instant Ziva turned around and smashed her lips against his. Her kisses were hard, and her nibbles were more like bites. She liked it rough, but Tony had expected nothing less from her. She liked being in control, she liked being the one in charge. It was a change up for Tony, but he couldn't say that he didn't like. Her body pressed against his as he pulled her closer, and her hardened nipples rubbing against his chest caused gooseflesh to appear. Before he knew it, Ziva had pulled him to the bed, where she forced him onto his back, and climbed on top of him. Lowering her head to his waist, Ziva gripped the elastic waist band of Tony's boxers between her teeth, and worked on removing them. Tony's body was practically vibrating with excitement when her long, slightly wet hair brushed across his exposed flesh. Closing his eyes, he moaned as Ziva laid down on top of him and traced her pointer finger around his nipple.

Then it hit him.

They were in bed.

Together.

Completely naked.

Tony pushed her off of him as gently as he could, and scrambled out of bed. He reached down and pulled up his boxers, which had fallen to his ankles upon standing. Ziva looked up at him from her place on the bed, her face a mask of curiosity. A bit of hurt flashed in her dark eyes, and Tony had to look away. Quietly he mumbled apologies, and inched toward the door. But before he was able to get there, Ziva got herself out of bed and positioned herself right in front of him. Her soft hands found their way into his brown, and she pulled his face closer to hers. For a moment Tony thought she was going to kiss him, but she didn't. Ziva moved his face so their foreheads were touching, and he was forced to stare directly into her eyes that swam with a million questions.

"Tony, what is wrong?"

"N-nothing," he mumbled.

"You and I both know that is not true." She replied, softly. "Come now, you can tell me."

"It's just- just-," He hesitated, biting his lip.

"Just what, Tony?"

"He probably slept in that bed."

"It was his house." She pointed out. "Even if he preferred sleeping on the couch it is probable that he slept in this bed from time to time."

Tony shook his head, but Ziva's grip never wavered. "No, probably slept in that bed, with his _wife_. He probably made love to Shannon in that bed. Zee-," his voice broke. "- it just doesn't seem right…"

"Shh," She shushed him. "Everything will be alright. Trust me, Tony."

"I- I should have been here."

"What?" she pulled back slightly.

"That night he went missing…" Tony's eyes took on a far away look. "I blew him off for some blonde bimbo… I was supposed to be here, Ziva…"

"Tony," she said sternly. "There was nothing you could have done. If you had been here you might be gone now too."

"Maybe…"

She lifted her face to kiss him, but just before her lips met his, Tony's hand found the doorknob and he slipped out of the room. Ziva's hands fell to her sides, and she looked at him with an expression of utter disbelief. Tony averted his gaze and mumbled quietly. "You should probably get to bed… Vance will be angry if you are late for work."

Without waiting for a response Tony turned and almost sprinted down the stairs. When he reached the bottom he found that The Guilt Trip had begun to play again. His empty beer cans littered the coffee table. Jogging over, he shook the Budweiser cans over his mouth, draining each and every one of them, not leaving a single drop unattended to. Yet, that still was not enough for him. Dropping the can that was currently in his hand, Tony wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and made his way into the kitchen. He knew that there were no more booze in the fridge, but he proceeded to look anyway. Slamming the door shut with an exasperated sigh, he moved across the room and yanked the basement door open. But he hesitated as he gazed down into the darkened cellar. The darkness seemed to reach up to him, beckoning him to come and join it. It was like the deepest pit of Hell, and it wanted to claim his soul.

Flicking on the lights the basement became just what it was: a basement. Descending the stairs, Tony stopped dead in his tracks when he found a large, half finished boat crowding up most of the space. Taking the rest of the steps two at a time, he ran to the dusty boat, and brushed his fingers against it. It was nice and smooth, the wood work was done to perfection. On the bow in black letters _'The T'_ was written. Just that, it was unfinished. Tony's heart pounded in his chest. Could it have been _The Tony_? Probably not, he was just deluding himself. Running his hand along the inside it hit something that was not wood. Grabbing the object, Tony nearly fist pumped when he found it to be a nearly full bottle of bourbon. It was probably skunked, but he didn't care. Any alcohol would do at that point. Uncapping the lid, he stumbled over to the steps and sat down. Taking a swig, he stared at the boat intently, what was it going to be named, and how the hell was it supposed to be removed from the basement? Disbelieving laughter burst from his mouth. That was a secret that had been taken to the grave.

He raised the bottle as high as his arm would allow. "To Gibbs." Tony murmured to no one in particular.

"To Gibbs." The empty room echoed.

_Umm… so review please. I know I'm not know for being the best NCIS author, but I really think my writing has improved. Uh, so review… please?_


	2. Chapter 2

There it went again. The sound of dripping water was getting to him. _Drip, drip, drip. Splash, splash, splash._ It echoed within the stone room, and got into his head. He didn't like it. No, he didn't like it one bit. It was driving him crazy. Not just any kind of crazy. Completely wigged out, bat shit crazy. His throat was dry, and the dripping water was going to waste. The slimy, disgusting, piss tainted water was going to waste and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. His throat wasn't just dry, it was raw and hurt as if he had swallowed a lit match, when was the last time he had had something to drink. The water was going to was. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair. The water was going to waste. Each and every drop was one drop that would not sooth his parched throat. The splashing seemed to get louder as it pounded into the concrete floor. The water was going to waste.

Beads of sweat steamed down his dirty forehead, leaving clean trails in their wake. It was so hot, and the water was going to waste. He couldn't see it. He couldn't see the water dripping, so he had no way of knowing if he was close enough to reach out with his lips and catch it. The water was going to waste. It was too dark to see the dripping, foul, disgusting, water. His eyebrows knitted together in wonder. Was he close enough? He'd never know, he didn't think anyway. His chains were probably too short to reach the water source anyway. A little bit of laughter bubbled from his mouth. Wouldn't that be the cherry on top of the cake? He was so hot, he just wanted the water. It was going to waste.

The white shirt that was no longer white clung to his body as it sweat out the little water it had in it. Now, that water was going to waste too. It was dark, he couldn't see anything, and he didn't like it. Where were his shoes? He still had one sock, yes, still one sock. All was not lost. He had his sock. He was missing a pant leg, but what did it matter? He still had his sock. Maybe everything about him wasn't a complete waste after all. The water still made him crazy though, crazy like a fox. When would it stop? When had it even started? When had the lights gone out? Had they even been on in the first place? He didn't like the dark, he couldn't see. Was there something out there waiting for him? Was something hiding in the dark ready to rip his throat out?

He was too tired to take on anything. His muscles felt like jelly. If the monsters wanted to kill him then he was at there mercy. No… No he could be saved. His…. His… The words were there in his brain, but they refused to surface, but then, there they were. His team! Yes, his team would save him from the monsters that lurked in the dark, and under the beds of innocent child. His team would come if he asked them to. His shaking hand slipped into the pocket of his raggedy pants in pursuit of his cell phone, but they returned empty, like a hook without a fish. His cell phone… He must have dropped it in the river. That's where the dripping water was coming from, the river.

Sound, he heard it. He heard sound. It was the sound of metal on stone, he didn't like it, almost as much as he didn't like the darkness. No, he didn't like either. They were both evil, they were both coming to get him. What had he done wrong this time? No, he had been good, hadn't he? He had been good. The sound continued, completely drowning the out the dripping water. His clammy hands clapped over his ears, and his head tilted back until it hit the wall behind him. It hurt, but maybe it would make the terrible sound go away. He was good. He hadn't done anything bad. At least he had his sock. Even beyond his shaking hands he could here rubber on cement. No, no! That was even worse.

"No!" He shouted. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"Mr. Leroy?" asked a small, quiet voice.

"W-who are you?" Gibbs demanded. "It's dark, I can't see!"

"Open your eyes, Mr. Leroy."

His face hurt. It was stiff. The voice told him to open his eyes. It seemed kind enough, but what if it was miss leading? What if it wanted to hurt him? Gibbs turned away from the source of the voice, and pressed himself closer to the hot wall. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place. Gibbs couldn't remember for the life of him if it was friendly, or if he should have been afraid of it. Why should open his eyes anyway? He'd only be faced with darkness. A cold hand touched the underside of his chin, and he leaned into it. He was so hot, the touch was so cool, and welcoming. Gibbs couldn't help it. He shivered a bit, and allowed the hand to guide him away from the wall where he had been cowering.

Gibbs scared blue eyes opened to see a young man kneeling before him. He wore a green sweater vest, and brown khakis. He knew the young man, he was nice. He liked him. He liked Seymour, even if he was the biggest dork on the face of the planet. Seymour was nice to him, not just some of the time, but all of the time. He looked like his mother dressed him though. But Gibbs knew that was impossible. Seymour's mother was dead. The young man really would have been dashing if he had presented himself better. Though he had a full head of dirty-blonde hair, he combed it over like an old man with hardly any hair at all. He also had remarkable hazel eyes, but he hit them behind a pair of horrendous horn rimmed glasses.

Seymour pulled his hand away from Gibbs chin, and the older man wanted to cry. He liked it when Seymour touched him. He wasn't cold or cruel like the others. He watched as his hands moved to a silver bowl that sat by his side. What was it four? Was he in trouble? Surely not, Seymour never dished out punishment, why would he start all of a sudden? His eyes moved away from the bowl, and gazed around the room for the dripping water, but he couldn't find it. The whole river was gone. It never like it when people came. It preferred to hide in the dark, just like the monsters that wanted to get him.

"Water?" Seymour asked.

"Where is it?" Replied Gibbs. His eyes continued to scan the room, looking for the river.

"Right here, Mr. Leroy," Seymour said, holding up the silver bowl.

"I'm not in trouble?"

"No, Grayson just told me to bring you something to drink."

"I'm not thirsty."

Seymour frowned. "If it had been John who told me to bring the water, would you drink it?"

His lips pressed into a thin line. "I suppose so, John's too stupid to do anything to the water."

"I assure you, Mr. Leroy, I got this water myself. It is perfectly clean."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir, as sure is my name is not Shirley." Seymour said with a light laugh. "Now are you thirsty or not? It feels like Adrian pumped up the heat."

"I'm parched." Was his tired reply.

Seymour lifted a large sponge out of the bowl of water, and squeezed it over Gibbs' dirt stained face. The water trickled down on him like the fall of a gentle rain. Instinctively he opened his mouth and swallowed as much water as he could, and he moaned as it slid down his aching throat. It felt so good, like nectar from the gods. Seymour pulled the sponge away, and he reached to grab the younger man's wrist, but his own were held back by chains. Was that all he got? Before he had a chance to ask, however, the sponge was dipped back into the water, and Seymour wrung it out over his mouth again. Gibbs was in heaven, he had never felt so good in his life. As Seymour worked in putting more liquids into Gibbs, they talked.

"How are you doing?" Seymour asked, in a voice like a whisper. He felt ashamed to ask the question.

"I still have my sock," Gibbs said, which was his usual reply.

"That's good, I guess." He murmured. He was never really sure how to take it, but Gibbs nodded in agreement as if it had been the right thing to say.

"It's good," Gibbs said between gulps of water. "It's very good."

Seymour sighed. "Grayson's coming soon. He wants to talk to you, and ask you some questions."

Gibbs eyes shot to Seymour's pale face, and he let his mouth slip closed, refusing anymore water. He should have known. He should have known there was going to be a catch. There was always some catch. He was just so thirsty that he had forgotten that fact.

Seymour didn't like the distrust that his behind Gibbs' eyes. It was never there before. It killed him. It seared a hole in his heart. He liked Gibbs, he really did. The older man was his only friend, and he didn't want to lose him. His turned away, unable to hold the accusing glace any longer. He hadn't meant to break his trust, honestly. His fists clenched. He felt so used. They had used him to warm Gibbs up before they came to talk to him. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

Quietly, Seymour reached out to touch Gibb's stubble filled check, but the man backed away. No matter how much Gibbs longed for human touch, he would not give in. Seymour had betrayed him. But then…. Why was there sadness glistening beyond his horned rimmed glasses. Pleadingly, the younger man reached for him, and Gibbs finally complied. Seymour didn't want to hurt him. He was being forced to do it. Seymour would never hurt him, never. The cool hand that ran through his half grown beard was nice. Not in any sort of sexual way, but it was just nice, nice to have human contact again.

More footsteps, Gibbs could hear them. There were more footsteps heading in his direction. His eyes clamped shut again, and he pressed himself as flat against the wall as he possibly could. The water began to drip again, and the monsters hid in the darkness. No, he didn't like the footsteps. The footsteps meant pain. He didn't like pain, he hated it more than the footsteps and the darkness combined. He could feel Seymour reach for him, but he pulled away. He didn't want Seymour to be associated with his pain. He liked Seymour. He didn't want Seymour to hurt him. The footsteps stopped, and he let out a sound like a wounded animal. He pressed the heels of his hands into his ears and whimper. Soft, gentle hands that were not Seymour's seized his wrists, and guided them away.

"Leroy,"

"I'm sorry…" He moaned.

"Leroy, you are not in trouble."

His eyes opened. "I-I'm not?"

Before him stood three new people, but he could see Seymour hanging in the background with a concerned expression on his face. The man that knelt before him was the very person who haunted his nightmares, and his every waking moment. Grayson was a year or two older than Seymour, and he was certainly more attractive. Actually, the only thing the two men shared was blood. Grayson's father had gotten Seymour's mother knocked up when she was sixteen. Grayson's mother had run off to California, and never returned. Poor Grayson had found himself stuck with his older brother, his abusive father, and then his pregnant step mother. Life had not been easy, though it did not show. His face was smooth, not a sign of premature ageing to be seen. His hair was slightly over grown, and it was very messy, but in an attractive way. It hung in the way of his brilliant blue eyes that could rival even Gibbs'.

Behind Grayson were two more people. Each was also remarkably attractive. Adrian was a woman in her mid twenties with wavy brown hair that flowed just past her shoulder's. Every time Gibbs had seen her she had been wearing an evening gown that revealed her large, plump breasts. She also wore thick red lip stick at all times, some of it still stained Gibbs' face. Beside her stood John, who had a strong build, but was dumber than a rock. Gibbs figured they used him for all the heavy lifting. It made sense. Sometimes he had trouble pronouncing his own name right. John had short blonde hair, and dull gray eyes. Most of all he had a brain that couldn't absorb more than three words at a time. When asked a question, he would always reply "Your face".

"Can I ask you some questions, Leroy?" Grayson asked.

Gibbs wanted to say no, but he knew that would get him in trouble, and then John would have to prove his usefulness. He hated Grayson's questions. They were always confusing, and he never knew how to answer. He never knew what answer would get him in trouble. He hated Grayson's questions.

"Yes," was his automatic reply.

"Good," Grayson said, a smile playing on his lips. "Can you tell me all the names of the people who work on your team? First, and last names please."

"Tony DiNozzo… Ziva David…" He paused deep in thought. "and Timothy McGee…?" The last part came out more like a question, and Grayson's smile grew wider.

"Good, and the ME?"

"Donald Mallard." Gibbs said with confidence.

His lips quivered a bit as if he wanted to frown, but he didn't. "What about the forensic scientist girl?

"Abby…" he hesitated. "Schm… Scuito."

Grayson's smile returned. "That's fantastic. One more, Leroy. Who is the young man that works with Dr. Mallard?"

"I-I…"

"Yes?" Grayson pressed.

Gibbs felt like a deer caught in a set of headlights. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to answer and he wanted them all to stop. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he slapped his hand down on them, earning him a strange look from Grayson. He wanted the man to stop smiling. It was creeping him out. He just wanted him to stop. He didn't like it. He didn't like it on bit. His eyes flashed to his sock, and he immediately tucked his foot underneath him. Only he and Seymour could know about his sock. It was a secret, no one else needed to know. He couldn't let them take his sock. It was all he had left.

"I- I don't know," He mumbled.

"What was that?" Grayson asked.

"I don't know!" Gibbs screamed. "I don't know! Why the hell are you asking me these questions!? They don't make any sense!"

"Calm down, Leroy."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Do not make me use unnecessary force."

"Shut up! Just shut up! I'm done!" Tears streamed down his dirty cheeks. "I'm done listening! I don't want to hear what you have to say anymore!"

"John, I believe it is your turn."

Gibbs' eyes once again snapped closed, and he curled into himself, whimpering. Rough hands seized the collar of his dirty shirt, and he was pulled up off of the ground as far as his chains would allow. John threw Gibbs' frail body with all of his might, sending the older man crashing into the wall, and then he slid to the floor none to gracefully. Pain exploded in the top of his back, right between his shoulder blades, but he did not dare make a sound. If John knew that he was hurting then he would just get a kick out of it and use more force. So he took it. A size twelve kicked him in the ribs, and all the air in his body escaped him, in a pain filled grunt. A strong hand wound its way into his over grown silver hair and yanked his head up. His eyes slowly opened to find John sneering at him, his face twisted in a sadistic smile, showing every one of his unnaturally white teeth. Gibbs would have liked to punch those pearly whites in more than anything.

In one fluid motion John snapped Gibbs head back, and sent it crashing into the wall. Stars exploded before his blue eyes, and when he blinked them away he saw a large meaty hand reaching for him once more. Even if John wasn't good with words, or anything more, he was great at dishing out a beating. The hand gripped the front of his shirt, and held him up against the stone wall, and for a moment, Gibbs thought it was done, because they just stood there and stared at each other. Then a fist connected with his sticking out ribs. A cry of pure agony ripped from his throat without his consent, as he felt a rib or two crack under the pressure.

The next thing he knew, he was back on the ground. There was a flurry of movement directly in front of him, and his silently raised his eyes to see just what the hell was going on. Seymour had jumped on John's back upon hearing Gibbs' strangled cry, and had wrapped both of his skinny legs around John's massive waist in order to stay on. John was wildly flailing his arms, trying to get the pest off of his back, but Seymour was out of his range. Finally, John got the bright idea to grab the younger man's leg, and then he sent him flying across the room. For a moment something flashed in the blonde's dull eyes, and then he turned to where Seymour was getting up off the floor, wiping blood from his nose.

"I didn't mean-," John started.

"Get out." Seymour said, in a steady, even, yet dangerous voice. "Get out, all of you. You got what you wanted, now leave him alone. He was just scared. He didn't mean to yell."

Everyone but Seymour filed out of the room quickly, without a second glace backward. Raising his eyes to meet Seymour's, Gibbs gave him a small smile and propped himself up a little. Seymour straightened his glasses, and wiped any remaining blood on his sweater vest. He quietly moved across the room, and knelt before Gibbs, who was gazing at his savior in wonder. He had never seen Seymour so assertive. It was incredible.

"Are you ok, Mr. Leroy?" He asked, lifting Gibbs' shirt to check his injuries.

"I'm fine, are _you_ ok?"

He shrugged. "It'll be better before I'm married. At least, that's what mother used to say."

Gibbs chuckled a bit, but then he grew serious. "Why'd they listen to you?"

He shrugged again. "They got what they needed. There was no reason to hurt you further. I just had to remind them of that."

Seymour poked at Gibbs' ribs, which were already starting to turn a nasty shade of purple, and Gibbs moaned a bit. But still, he felt himself leaning into the younger man's touch, even if it hurt. Seymour seemed to notice this, and he opened his arms to Gibbs, who graciously accepted the warm hug that was awaiting him. He pressed his battered face into Seymour's boney shoulder, and just sat there, letting him hold him. He didn't know where the tears came from, but they flowed like the river in the dark down his cheeks. He was mildly aware of Seymour rubbing his back, and whispering something to him, but he was to focused on the touch to hear anything.

"Thank you," Gibbs sobbed into his shoulder. "Thank you, so much Seymour."

_So uh, please review? I only got five last chapter, and I know it sounds a little snobbish, but I want more. I really hope you guys are enjoying the story. This chapter didn't come out as well as I hoped it would. But at least it came out at all._


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